


Gratitude

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Size Kink, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cyclonus says thankyou, only not in so many words. Set just after the events of MTMTE #12.</p><p>Contains spoilers for MTMTE #12, touch of dubcon at the beginning, explicit consensual sticky, and sizekink.</p><p>Many thanks to Spacehussy and Caius for the encouragement <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratitude

"Wake up." The voice was familiar, but Tailgate couldn't quite work out who it was.

"Mmmhmmm," he complained. He was warm and comfortable and _so_ not ready to be online right now, thank-you very much. 

"Wake up." The voice hummed through him, a complement to the warmth and comfort. Systems clicked on, his fans began to whir. Ah, so this was one of _those_ dreams. Tailgate wasn't sure he needed a dream like that right now, not when the source of his erotic fantasies was sure to be in recharge the next slab over. 

Still, he stretched and arched and parted his thighs to a phantom touch. Sensors lit up, and his port began to ache. Oh scrap, he didn't need any leaks, but mmmmmm, maybe he should let his subconscious take this for just a little while longer? He stretched again, enjoying the hot flicker of a ghostly energy field tingling through his armour to lap gently at all his most sensitive spots.

"Tailgate." The voice was louder, harsher. "Wake up."

His optics booted, and he spent a moment caught between bewilderment, terror, and embarrassment so acute his fans momentarily seized. 

Red optics hovered over him. Oh no no no no no, how far had his fantasy gone? He'd been keeping Cyclonus awake; this could not end well.

"I'm sorry," he squeaked, and tried to shrug off the persistent warm tingling. He didn't want Cyclonus to yell at him and leave. Again. 

"Finally," Cyclonus said, and vented warm air over Tailgate's front. 

Tailgate shivered. "Huh?" 

"There is a ritual," Cyclonus said. "Although we are technically even, having prevented each others' permanent deactivation, it is appropriate for me to express gratitude for your assistance." 

Heat bloomed between Tailgate's thighs, and he realised the touch hadn't been so ghostly after all. A drip of lubricant made him want to slam his legs together in shame, while the warmth from those fingers made him want to open everything up.

"Um... You're thanking me?" 

Cyclonus didn't answer, but revved his engine. The vibrations spread through Tailgate's small frame. Hot scrap, that was nice.

"But what if... if I don't want you to thank me - and I'm not saying no, _this is just hypothetical!_ " he blurted before Cyclonus could back off. "I'm just saying. What then?"

"Then we remain even," Cyclonus said. "And I will express nothing."

Tailgate looked up into Cyclonus' optics; they were so close he could make out each individual light-sensing node. "How, um, exactly do you express gratitude?" 

For a horrible second he thought he might have said the wrong thing, but Cyclonus' engine rumbled with as close to amusement as Tailgate had ever heard. "In ways you will enjoy," he said, and there was something about his voice that made Tailgate's hardware burn. 

Tailgate nodded, and tried to bring his thighs further apart without it being obvious that was what he was doing. "OK," he said, "Yes, um, please, I..." His words turned into a moan as Cyclonus pressed down on him and revved his engine hard. 

Tailgate panted for air, his fans no longer enough. He couldn't stop himself, his panels clicked open. Cables spooled out at his waist, and a warm breeze kissed the rim of his exposed port. 

He was so _so_ grateful to First Aid just then for replacing Cyclonus' damaged claws with blunt fingers. One slid smoothly inside him, building charge. Then another, and he arched as Cyclonus hit on a hot little node and he melted from the inside out. 

He had no idea how he was this switched on. He should have been terrified; this was Cyclonus - large, dangerous, volatile Cyclonus. But his every system buzzed with excitement, and his port clenched tight around Cyclonus' fingers. Oh yes, so large and dangerous, and so careful. Easing him open, slicking his own lubricants over all the crackling, thrilling little sensors.

And avoiding his cables. But a connection was probably too intimate; Cyclonus really did have issues. And Primus, he could do anything he wanted with whatever hardware he chose to lay his hands on if he kept doing _that_ with his fingers. 

The last of Tailgate's drowsiness burnt away, and he risked laying his hands on Cyclonus' shoulders. Crimson light blazed, and Tailgate's spark flared. He was right about Cyclonus, he'd been right all along. There was more to him than stern rebuffs and a quick temper.

So much more. Tailgate vented hard, letting the charge grow, feeling the heat expand his joints just a fraction. 

All the tension eased from his cables, and he let his vision go fuzzy. It took a while; although his terror was quick to fade, his embarrassment was horribly persistent, but Cyclonus' ministrations were relentless. Tailgate's spike extended, arousal finally eclipsing any lingering shame. He swore as it was quickly enveloped in the vibrations of both their engines and the hot caress of Cyclonus' energy field. A gentle rub of armour was all the friction Tailgate needed. 

Overload came in an intense wash of heat, deep and thrilling. He slumped on his recharge slab, still panting, hands somehow clinging to the flanges of Cyclonus' helm. 

With an effort, Tailgate prised his own fingers away, but hadn't any idea where else to put them. Cyclonus slowly withdrew.

"Wait!" Tailgate reached after him. "Stop."

"You are unsatisfied?" In the light from their optics, Cyclonus' expression was impossible to gauge. 

"No, no, that was great, I just..." Tailgate knelt up; with his port exposed, he felt more than a bit daring. "You said we're even." He couldn't help but glance down; Cyclonus' armour was sealed, but Tailgate's port ached nonetheless. "You thanked me anyway. I should thank you."

Cyclonus' optics flickered, and Tailgate could only hope it was surprise. "You don't know what you're offering," he said.

"Something you'll like?" Tailgate hazarded. 

"We may not be physically compatible." 

"Let me try." 

"You have already been fulfilled."

Tailgate gave what he hoped was an endearing flash of his lights. "I'm ready to go again." 

"My repairs are not complete," Cyclonus stated.

"I'll be careful! You're just looking for excuses."

Cyclonus pounced and Tailgate yelped. The recharge slab hit him square in the back and Cyclonus' weight again pinned him. 

"Does... does the damage hurt?" Tailgate said. "Maybe I can help."

"No," Cyclonus growled, and this time the frequency of his engine cut right the way through to Tailgate's spinal struts. "Pain is nothing to me, I am a warrior. You... are not a warrior. You are a tool to disarm weapons."

"Are you afraid I'll disarm you?" 

This time Tailgate really did think he'd gone too far, but the fist crashed down beside his head not on it, and it barely put a dent in the slab. 

"You couldn't if you tried. But I can kill you, quickly and easily. You do know that."

"You haven't," Tailgate ventured. "I don't think you want to, or you'd have done it already. You have a lot of aggression though." He focused on the pulsing of his spark, encouraging the corona to flicker out, to spread a pleasant warmth on and through Cyclonus' armour. "Maybe you could find another outlet for that?"

"You're persistent." Cyclonus leaned up, allowing Tailgate to move if he wanted. 

He didn't want to. _And you're stubborn,_ he thought, but decided not to actually say it. Instead, he said, "It won't make you weak. You know, if you let me express what I want to express to you."

"I _know_." Cyclonus made a noise somehow expressing both defeat and frustration. "But _you_ are weak. Weaker than me, and small. You will get hurt-"

"I won't," Tailgate said, arching his back to bring their energy fields into subtle contact. "You'll make sure I don't." He raised a knee, bringing it slowly up the inside of Cyclonus' thigh. "I didn't spend _all_ my life in a hole in the ground, I do know things. Things you might like."

Cyclonus seized him by the waist, and the world spun around. He reached for the first solid thing he could see, which turned out to be Cyclonus' broad chest.

"Um," Tailgate said, as his head stopped spinning. Actually, clinging to Cyclonus' chest was rather nice, but he couldn't do it forever. Cyclonus settled Tailgate in his lap, his legs parted and the heat of the larger mech's interface hatch catching him right in the port. 

"That's..." Tailgate shifted. "That's good," he said. A click, and the heat beneath him intensified. 

"Still think you won't get hurt?"

Tailgate looked down; the cool blue light of his visor gave him enough of a view to make his port ache like crazy. He wasn't sure physical incompatibility was the right term, what he saw was more a prophecy that he was going to be really _really_ sore in the morning.

And scrap, he wanted it.

"I think," he said, as he shifted to allow the spike to jut up between his thighs, "I can handle this."

Cyclonus' engine rumbled, and it was a moment before Tailgate realised he was laughing. All that stopped when the smaller bot brought his hands into play. 

Oh, now _that_ was a reaction worth waiting for. Cyclonus sighed, and leaned his head back. His optics dimmed, his frame relaxed. He held onto Tailgate's thighs, the grounder's curves fitting neatly in his hands. 

Tailgate worked the delicate metal, fingers gliding over long, sensor-laden strips and naked connection points. His palms tingled as circuits formed and were broken in the slide of his hands, and his sensors thrilled at the complex texture of the ridged shaft. 

His port rippled, needy, wet with a trickle of fresh lubricant. He wasn't sure how much longer he could wait. He teased the tip of the spike, and Cyclonus' grip tightened. Tailgate paused.

"Keep going," Cyclonus urged, squeezing Tailgate's thighs. It took no small amount of effort to get him to let Tailgate move, or perhaps for him to realise that's what Tailgate wanted to do.

Kneeling was awkward with his legs spread so wide, and Tailgate leaned against Cyclonus. He positioned himself over the spike, trying his best to relax. 

"Your hands will be adequate," Cyclonus said, but Tailgate leaned his weight on the pitted and patched expanse of the larger mech's abdomen, and eased himself down onto the spike.

It wasn't like the earlier easing, when Cyclonus' fingers had fit smoothly inside him. This was a far tighter fit. There was no give, and he took it slow, rolling his hips to push the spike in and then out of him in incrementally longer thrusts. His lubricants glossed the tip, making it easier with each tiny movement, and his port spiraled gradually wider. 

Cyclonus continued to clutch at him, but he made no further objection. Instead, his hands began to roam, cupping Tailgate's aft and guiding his rhythm. 

Tailgate let him. He was busy enough trying to think past the fullness in his port, and the intense rub of those undulating ridges over all his most intimate sensors. His own spike stiffened and discharged, his port rippling around his partner's girth, but he didn't think to stop. It was all too good. 

When Cyclonus moved him, he made no protest. On his hands and knees was novel; against the wall was intense. But on his back on the slab, with Cyclonus covering him completely, was by far the best. 

It was there that the frisson of danger was most present, that Cyclonus' size and strength were demonstrated to greatest effect. His port clenched as he overloaded, pleasure burning through him in waves. And this time, Cyclonus also tensed and stilled, and pressed him tight to the slab as he came.

Cyclonus vented fast, the noise of his intakes only just overshadowing the ship's air conditioning. They really must have heated up the room. 

Tailgate hauled in air, minor contractions still tugging his port in tight on Cyclonus' spike. He winced as Cyclonus withdrew, already feeling the sting. 

"You _are_ hurt," Cyclonus said, as though it was a vindication. He rolled on his back on the slab, his equipment somehow already retracted and packed away.

Tailgate curled up next to him, unable to feel much aside from his overtaxed sensors and a happy flood of coolant. 

"Just sore," he said quietly. "Worth it." 

He hauled himself into the space between Cyclonus' arm and his side, too exhausted to do much more. Cyclonus would probably move soon, going back to his own slab on the other side of the room. Until then, however, he was warm and solid and oddly comforting, and Tailgate was determined to enjoy being close to him. 


End file.
